


I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings, And It’s Not For You

by frumious_bandersnatch



Series: Rememberings [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Delusions, Gen, Lucifer Needs a Hug, Lucifer in Hell, Lucifer whump, The Cage, Torture, cage angst, cage fic, whoops I made a sympathetic character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-28
Updated: 2020-07-28
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:08:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25576342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frumious_bandersnatch/pseuds/frumious_bandersnatch
Summary: Summary of Lucifer’s time in Hell
Series: Rememberings [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1853932
Comments: 10
Kudos: 13





	I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings, And It’s Not For You

“Hey Gabriel.” Lucifer smiled sadly. “I’ve missed you so much. How long has it been now?” Silence. “A million? Are you sure? Nah, it can’t be. What do you wanna do today?” Lucifer’s voice broke and his chest ached and tears were streaming down his face because pretend was no fun when it was an escape, and Gabriel wasn’t really there and when he had visions, that Gabriel was much older and so much more cruel.

All this was was a pile of molted feathers Lucifer had stacked to give himself something to look at. “S-sounds fun.” And he couldn’t see the feathers anymore because they were just a big hazy blur through his tears.

He curled into a small ball and imagined Michael’s wings around him, strong and powerful and keeping him safe. But that hurt too because the last memory he had of Michael’s touch was searing pain. 

“Rem-remember when we-“ And Lucifer was laughing that awful, sobbing laugh you get when you’re on the edge of delirium and you don’t know whether you’re happy or sad anymore. He didn’t need to ask the question because no one was listening, no one could hear him, he was all alone and no one would ever love him.

Laughter turned to sobs, wet and heaving, turned to wails and screams of rage because he had no other way to express himself, not really.

And that was just a hundred years in.

A thousand, and he was sitting crosslegged across from not-Michael and talking happily about something or other.

“I made a light again today.” He said proudly, holding up his hand and watching as a sun, a solar system formed in his palm.

And Michael smiled and said he was proud of him, that father was proud, and then Lucifer was crying again. Because it was his fault and he knew it was and he’d messed up so, so bad and all he wanted to do was show father that something was wrong with humans he hadn’t meant to-

He didn’t know when his images had switched from talking to belittling, from yelling to ripping and tearing at him, yanking on his wings, tying him up and slicing into him.

He never saw his father. Never. Not even when he tried. He couldn’t remember God’s face. He knew it was beautiful, the brightest most beautiful thing he’d ever seen before but when he imagined it or at least tried to, he saw nothing.

He flew. In slow, lazy circles around the perimeter of his cage like a fish in a tank whiling away the time until it dies and gets flushed.

His wings were damaged and each stroke down was agony but it was better than staying on the ground and hearing them, feeling them claw at him. He flew until he fell asleep in the air and crashed into the ground and he screamed and cried out because there was no one there to catch him or comfort him or tell him it would be okay.

As he got older he didn’t mature. He just grew bitter. He used his growing power to send blasts of grace energy against the bars of the cage, to make the image of something for him to tear into because he was just so damn tired of taking it from his imagination and he needed a place to vent.

He made his own humans and they had no words to say but they had a voice to cry suffering. He invented and thought that when he got out he’d show Michael what he learned. And then he’d be sorry.

He beat himself bloody slamming himself against the invisible walls, he bashed his skull in, he twisted and broke his wings until bone shards stuck out of the sides. God had made him beautiful. And Lucifer hated it. He blamed god for his pride and so he made himself terrible. Fearsome. When he looked at himself in a conjured mirror he drove claws into the glass and shattered it into a million pieces because he still glowed with God’s grace and he hated it because all it did was remind him of heaven.

“Kill me.” He begged. “Strike me down, go on, I get it. You just want to forget about me down here, so kill me. It’ll save Michael the effort later.” He spread his arms and waited for the release of death, for a bolt of lightning through the skull, but it never came. He collapsed and he didn’t cry, because the tears had stopped coming eons ago. He shook and gave dry, heaving sobs and thought he must be the most pathetic thing in the universe.

He sang, voice rasping and broken. He sang hymns to nothing and no one, he wrote songs about death and destruction and Michael and Gabriel and to the death of an absent god.

Two years before he was supposed to be released, though of course Lucifer wouldn’t know that, the archangel curled up on his side and wept freely. “I just want it to be over. Please, let it be over. Kill me, kill me, please, please, I’m sorry. Please. Just do it. I’m so tired. I don’t want this anymore.”

Lucifer clawed at his wrists, plunged his hand into his stomach, snapped his neck and broke his bones. 

And in this world, Lucifer never rose. He never came out. He clawed out his grace and succumbed to his self inflicted injuries. 

And Chuck crumpled up the manuscript and tossed it away, and started anew again with the same flawed characters. The second time he saw Lucifer fall a smirk crossed his lips.

The pain, the anguish, it was beautiful. He didn’t care that what he was playing with had feelings of its own. 

The tenth time he laughed. 

The hundredth he grew aroused.

The millionth time he saw his favorite son fall he knew it was the one. The perfect universe. He’d finally get past the first month of Lucifer’s life on the surface. Maybe to the climax of the apocalypse he had planned, if he was lucky. And this time, he was. To the apocalypse and past it with flying colors. Back to the cage. Lucifer’s anguish had burned through the universe in a wave and Chuck had simply paused to take a sip of his scotch before he got back to writing with a tiny, self satisfied smile.

When Dean stabbed Lucifer in the church Chuck had simply nodded because it was a perfect ending, it was more than what Lucifer deserved in his opinion.

To anyone else who knew the full story it was a tragedy. But then again, the only people who knew were either caged, dead, or pretending to be.


End file.
